


Spectre

by MartianMadness66



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Dark, F/M, M/M, More sad, Sad boi, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, im sorry, yikes guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartianMadness66/pseuds/MartianMadness66
Summary: He was slipping.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! I'm sorry in advance, this is not a happy story but I couldn't get it out of my head sooo here we are. Also, fun fact about this fic, it was originally a lot longer than this but I ended up having to split it into two different stories sooo eventually I'll post the other one and you guys will probably see that they're pretty similar but they went drastically different directions. The title was taken from the song Spectre by Radiohead (gives me chills every time I listen to it) as I spent most of my time writing this fic with it on repeat. Oh! Important to mention, this was also inspired by thoughts of what Paul would have been like with no Linda to ground him so there's no Linda. Even though that was almost physically painful for me to do. Also also this fic would probably never have existed without the writings of the lovely CelebratoryPenguin! Her series Four Last Songs both devastated and inspired me so very much! Go check it out and give her some love! 
> 
> Lastly, TRIGGER WARNING!! I know I wrote this in the tags, but I want to be clear: there is self-harm and suicidal thoughts in this fic. Tread lightly. Please don't read if you think it will trigger anything. 
> 
> Okay, that's it! Lemme know what you think! This is only my second fic so criticism is seriously totally welcome, I'm always looking to improve, and your comments make my whole day. Alright, enjoy!

**March 1968**

He probably shouldn’t be here, all things considered. If the press found out, or _John found out_ , Jesus, he’d certainly never live it down. And Jane…. Well, she was gone, anyway. Doing her own thing. Like always.

 

He tensed as a scantily clad lad walked past drenched in the scent of strawberry perfume. He stared down at his drink. God, why the hell had he come here? This wasn’t the same, no matter how badly he wanted it to be. A deep breath. He glanced up at the little stage where a skinny, strong young man was dancing on a pole in leopard print shorts and flouncing around a large silver boa. He looked back at his drink. This wasn’t right.

 

He left a twenty-pound note on the table and left as quickly as he could.

 

 

**May 1968**

 

He was back, and he didn’t know why. He was sat in the same little table in the corner that he’d been in the first time he’d come here, had ordered the same drink, was wearing the same thing. He was lonely, he supposed, eyeing a couple making out right off the stage with more than a little envy. He glanced at the array of empty glasses growing on the table and pretended they didn’t scare him.

 

“Hey, baby, you look a little lonely. Want some company?”

 

Paul looked up, eyes following the sparkling silver speedo up past the pale expanse of bare chest to the heavily made-up face of a young man. Kid. God, he couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. Who was he kidding, though. He’d had younger.

 

He shrugged, glancing back down, feeling his cheeks heating up with shame.

 

“Or, y’know, I could be an ear? If that’s the company you need, honey,” the boy continued, softly… worried?

 

Weird.

 

Paul said nothing.

 

The boy waited but when Paul’s answer wasn’t forthcoming, he sighed and slipped into the chair opposite Paul.

 

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” The kid said knowingly, resting his chin in his palm. Paul huffed a laugh at that.

 

“Not exactly,” he murmured. He squirmed when the kid remained quiet. He continued. “I mean, I had a, uh, a lover, of sorts. He was, y’know, um… he has someone else now. A woman.”

 

He saw the kid wince out of the corner of his eye and felt himself deflate. It hurt even worse saying it out loud.

 

“That’s tough,” the kid murmured. He folded his arms and leaned forward, almost like he was letting Paul in on a secret. “You know,” he said, voice gentle. “This place is, obviously, kind of sexual and everything, but all of us here know what you’re going through. It’s common, unfortunately. But you can come here and talk to people, too. Or, y’know, fuck it out. You have options, hon. And this place is very secretive. Trustworthy. You don’t have to hide like that. You can be _you_ here.”

 

Paul’s head snapped up. Be him? Did he know who he was?

 

The kid laughed lightly. “You’re not very good at disguises, luv. I mean, I don’t think that most people here have figured it out yet, but the people here are smart. And understanding,” he added kindly.

 

Paul nodded jerkily and quickly got up, murmuring a soft thanks and leaving a hundred-pound note on the table before he ran off, embarrassed and ashamed.

 

 

**July 23, 1968**

He was back and he was desperate. Jane was gone, John was with Yoko, George and Ringo hated him and he would be damned if he was going to be alone tonight. He walked straight toward the bar, a man on a mission, ordered a drink and sat observing the clientele, searching for someone who could give him what he needed.

 

_Aha._

Sitting over in one of the booths alone was a man, large, bulky, and Paul was instantly drawn. He grabbed his drink and made his way over. The man looked up when he approached, and Paul was sure that he looked like a mess, all red eyes and shaky hands, but _God, he needed this._

 

“Hi,” Paul said and winced. He didn’t really know how to do this with men.

 

The guy eyed him for a moment and then laughed. Paul tensed, gripping his drink harder, his shaky hand stilling with conviction.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

That shut the man up.

 

“What?” He asked dumbly.

 

“Fuck me,” Paul repeated. He felt completely wild, chaotic energy coursing through him and he didn’t know what to do with it and he really didn’t want to think about why it was there. The man stared at him, face expressionless.

 

“Okay,” he said finally, getting up. He took Paul’s drink, set it on the table, then grabbed Paul’s wrist and dragged him to one of the little back rooms where he slammed Paul against the door and kissed him roughly, pinning his wrists above his head. Paul tried at first to fight back a little, but it was useless and anyway, it felt so much better just to give in. When they parted Paul was gasping for breath, and the man was quick to bite harshly at Paul’s throat before he was turning him around and yanking Paul’s pants down his thighs. Paul only got a few minutes of spit slicked preparation before the man was shoving harshly into him.

 

Paul had been taken hard, but this was _different_. This was dirty and impersonal and _wrong_ , he knew that. That’s what made it so good. The door rattled as the man pounded him hard and fast and dirty and all Paul could do was desperately try to keep up, letting out soft gasps as he felt his orgasm build. He wanted to touch himself, but the man still had Paul’s wrists pinned to the door. As if he could read Paul’s thoughts, the man reached down to fist Paul’s slick cock and a few quick pumps later Paul was spilling over the man’s hand and the door and then the man was pulling out, coming quickly over Paul’s back and arse.

 

Paul fell against the door, panting. He had expected a nice wave of afterglow, which came, but he hadn’t expected the strange hollow feeling in his chest, the _shame._

 

Paul weakly pushed himself off the door, turning to see the man holding a towel. He gestured vaguely. “Want me to clean you up?”

 

Paul opened his mouth, ready to say no, when he remembered where exactly the man had come. He nodded, shoulders tensing slightly in humiliation as he turned back to the door. In the man’s defense, he went as quickly as possible, tossing the towel into a little bin beside the door when he was finished. Paul quickly did up his pants, unsure what he was supposed to say. He turned to the man, hoping words would just happen, but he found his mind still completely blank. He blushed at his lack of words. The man laughed, slightly awkward.

 

“Who’d’ve known Paul McCartney likes it up the arse, huh?”

 

Paul’s blush darkened considerably, shame overwhelming him. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone,” he murmured, desperately fighting the urge to hold himself. He looked pathetic enough. The man laughed again, softer this time. “Course not,” he said.

 

Paul nodded.

 

\--

 

As Paul walked home all he could think was that something had finally broken in him. He wasn’t sure what.

 

 

**July 29, 1968, Hey Jude**

Paul got to Twickenham fifteen minutes early. He made light conversation with the crew, flirted with the young intern girl who brought him coffee, and joked around with George and Ringo when they got there. He was smiling and laughing and making absolute certain that no one could tell that he was slipping. Because he was fine. He was totally fine. Everything was fine.

 

When John showed up with Yoko Paul held his grin in place. This was fine. He wasn’t upset. John didn’t get his song, which was fine. John didn’t need to. For all his complaints about being abandoned John sure did a great job putting people in the same position. Which was fine.

 

Paul greeted John with a playful smile. “Hey, Johnny. Alright?” he said, patting John’s arm lightly.

 

John smiled. Paul, who was _totally fine_ , definitely felt no deflation of irritation at the sight of that smile. Because he was _fine._

 

“Heya, Paulie. What’s got you so happy?” John asked. Paul dutifully ignored Yoko’s steady presence beside John. Because she was fine.

 

“Ah, come off it, Johnny. You know I like performing,” Paul said, shuffling from foot to foot with pent up energy. He’d even had a, uh, _session_ the previous night. Hadn’t done a thing but exacerbate his self-loathing, though.

 

 John scoffed. “Course you do. Pretty Paulie’s gotta be in the spotlight,” he laughed. Paul kept smiling, even though he was pretty sure that John hadn’t intended it as a complement.

 

Paul was having a hard time looking at John knowing that he’d been with another man the previous night. It’s not like John and him were ever exclusive, but Paul found it very difficult to be intimate with other men. Christ, he found it difficult to be intimate with _John._ But he was determined to prove to himself that he didn’t need John. He could do these things without thinking about John. One day. John had also, to his knowledge, not really been with a man, outside maybe Stu. Which was fine. That definitely didn’t bother him. Like Yoko didn’t bother him. At all.

 

And this whole John thing didn’t bother him. John could do as he pleased. And he did. So that was fine.

 

Paul was fine.

 

**August 1968**

 

 _“Fuck,”_ Paul groaned into his pillow. His hands were twisted in the sheets. He’d decided to do this at his house this time; he was tired of the grungy rooms and bathrooms of the club.

 

The man gripped Paul’s hips harder, sure to leave bruises overtop the fading ones from the last couple of times he’d done this. Paul hadn’t gone crazy, yet. He didn’t _need_ this, he just needed to feel… _something_ that wasn’t this horrible ache in his chest.

 

The man moaned and then he was pulling out and flipping Paul over, pushing Paul’s legs against his chest as thrust back in, taking Paul hard and fast. Paul gasped, anxiety filling his chest. This was—no, he didn’t like it this way, didn’t like to see his partner’s faces because they— _they weren’t John._

 

Paul felt tears slip down his cheeks as the man came inside him, collapsing quickly after and crushing Paul’s legs painfully against his chest. Paul whimpered softly, unable to quite get his hand between their bodies to finish himself off. The man lifted up slightly, grinning down at Paul’s needy face.

 

“Christ,” he murmured, stroking Paul’s wet cheek, “You’re just like a woman.” Paul lowered his eyes in shame, jumping slightly when the man trailed his fingers lightly over Paul’s straining erection. “Do you want it, baby? You want me to jerk you off? Make you come?” The man growled, breath hot and wet in Paul’s ear. Paul flinched. He brought a hand up to stroke himself, but his hand was quickly pinned to the mattress. “Oh no, baby. You’re going to come from my hand or not at all,” the man whispered playfully. Paul felt panic rising as the man climbed onto his chest, pinning Paul’s hands down with one of his own. He flicked his tongue against Paul’s lips before shoving quickly inside, his free hand pumping Paul’s cock. Tears were coming fast, and Paul let out a soft sob against the man’s lips when he came, anxiety and shame overwhelming him. The man laughed and brought his hand up to Paul’s mouth. “Lick it,” he said, eyes dark with lust. Paul’s eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. He _really_ didn’t want to do that. The man’s gaze hardened. He brought his clean hand up to grip Paul’s cheeks, forcing his mouth open. _“I said lick it,”_ he snarled. Paul whimpered and gently sucked his spunk off the man’s hand. “That’s it, baby, that’s it. Jesus, you’re a little slut, aren’t you?” the man groaned and slipped his hand from Paul’s mouth. He slowly slid his fingers through Paul’s growing locks and then pulled tight, yanking his head back. “I’ll be seeing you again, sweet thing,” he murmured, smiling at Paul’s tear-stained face.

 

Paul stayed in place as the man dressed himself and left. As soon as he heard the door close, he curled up on his side and cried.

 

 

**August 26, 1968**

It was after another day of fierce fighting in the studio that Paul tried harming himself for the first time. He hadn’t really meant to, not at first. He’d simply had one too many and had slipped, shattering his bottle on the floor. He hadn’t felt alarmed, though, watching the blood trickle down his forearm. It certainly hadn’t felt _nice_ , but….. it was something? Paul couldn’t honestly say what was so fascinating about it, but it had him transfixed. He picked up one of the shards on the floor, pushing Martha away when she got too close to the glass mess by his feet, and gently dragged it across his upper arm. He watched in amazement as more blood slowly trailed down his arm. He paused, guilt and shock settling in. He’d just intentionally cut himself. What was he, twelve? He got up and washed his hands in the bathroom sink, trying to see if there was any glass in his skin, but he couldn’t really tell through his wobbly vision. He cleaned up the mess so that Martha wouldn’t get hurt and made his way up to bed without even taking his shoes off.

 

 

**September 1968**

 

Paul had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t hurt himself again. It was fucked up, it was wrong, and it was stupid. What if he went too far? Paul didn’t always know his own strength.

 

So naturally, he was sat on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, drunk off his arse, staring at the little razorblade in his hand like it held the answer to all life’s questions. He knew he shouldn’t, but it was so _tempting_. He had no idea what was happening to him. He felt like he was deteriorating and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was crazy, really. He’d always had a natural tendency toward optimism. Maybe that’s why this was hitting him so hard. He’d never really dealt with depression on this level, not even when his mum died. Even then, he’d done his best to be practical and push everything down. He had hated feeling that sad and lonely and had done everything humanly possible to avoid it. And he’d been able to then. But everything he did now seemed so temporary. He fucked and he felt something, whether that something was pain (as was becoming more common) or pleasure or guilt or shame, or whatever. It was _something_.

 

And now _this._

 

Paul breathed slowly as he brought the blade down gently against his arm. He winced, quickly pulling the blade away. He didn’t have the luxury of shock dulling his senses this time, and the pain was far worse than he anticipated. He stared at the small cut that was steadily leaking blood. His vision started blurring, and he threw the blade in frustration. He couldn’t do anything anymore without feeling ashamed.

 

 

**October 1968**

 

Paul sat still at the piano bench, not even listening to anything John was saying to him anymore. He was using Yoko against him again. Paul had to stop listening or he’d break right in front of everyone. And that wasn’t an option.

 

“Fucking hell, Paul, are you that fucking arrogant? Oh, yes, you’re just _so_ perfect, you don’t need to listen to lowly ol’ John, what would he know? Why would a god pay attention to what any of us ants are doing?” John snarled. Paul didn’t hear it. Or, he didn’t show that he heard it. He was already planning on picking up a guy. It would be rough tonight—rough, aggressive, bruising sex. The kind that would have him unable to sit for at least a week.

 

The kind he used to have with John. Back before all of this. Back when he was having sex because he loved the man he was with.

 

Paul’s chest constricted. He stood up abruptly and looked at John, who was still talking but now Paul could see Yoko’s face, and there was something so unnerving, so judgmental in her expression. “Y’know,” he said, cutting John off. “I’m pretty beat. Let’s try this again tomorrow.” He smiled, trying to look presentable and not like he slipping. Judging by John’s twisted look of fury, though, he was guessing he failed.

 

He left before John could say anything. He couldn’t handle another bout of Lennon-acid.

 

Just before he reached the front doors, his arm was grabbed and then he was being dragged into the bathroom. He gasped as John shoved him hard against the wall. Paul’s eyes widened. John had never given _him_ that look before, that horrible, terrifying anger, even during their worst fights. Paul felt his gut twist.

 

“You are a sick piece of shit, Paul,” John snarled. “I tried to tell Yoko that you weren’t only a self-important prick, but _fuck_ , I was fucking wrong. All you ever cared about was _you_. This – _all of this_ was a goddamn mistake. _You_ are the worst mistake I ever made. I can’t believe I let myself get sucked into your world of dolled up tarts.” John stepped back. “You’re disgusting, Paul. A disgusting little faggot who only gives a shit about himself,” John shook his head, disgusted. “What the hell did I ever see in you?”

 

Paul felt nothing. And everything. Too much and too little all at once. He knew he was crying, could feel the wet tracks down his cheeks, but didn’t have the wherewithal to actually do anything about it. The worst part was he couldn’t bring himself to tell John he was wrong, because he wasn’t. He’d been selfish and wanted John all to himself. John wanted to be happy and that happiness wasn’t with Paul. But Paul still wanted him.

 

Paul looked at the floor. He was hoping desperately that John would leave so that he could break in peace, but John wasn’t moving. Eventually, Paul couldn’t hold it in and the quiet sniffles got a little louder. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle his noises, embarrassment bleeding into his cries. He turned against the wall, humiliated. He’d cried more these last couple months than he had his entire life. When the fuck had he turned into such a pussy?

 

“Fucking hell, Paul,” John groaned, and then he was leaving, slamming the bathroom door behind him. Paul shuddered, a few more tears escaping before he forced his mask back on. He took a deep breath, forcing everything down. It wouldn’t do to keep losing control like this. He looked at himself in the mirror, hating what he saw. He wiped his eyes. What was he doing?

 

 

**March 1969**

 

He hadn’t slipped since. Not publicly. He showed up to the studio with a smile, ready and willing to mold his bandmates however he needed to. They weren’t fond of him much anymore, at least, not most of the time, but that was okay. Someone needed to take the hit so that they stayed together. So long as they stayed together.

 

It had been his idea to film their recordings, his thought being that if they were constantly being filmed then there would be more pressure to be polite. Selfish though it was, Paul felt it was necessary. He was meticulous, as he always was, with his music, but he tried to back off with the others’ songs. He wasn’t always successful, but he tried. He knew if he pushed too hard, they’d be gone, and he was lonely enough these days. He was going to the club almost every day, now. But that was okay. He didn’t think about it at work, nor did he think about the cuts lining his arms. It was cold enough that he could get away with long sleeves, still.

 

Paul arrived a half-hour early, as he’d been doing the past week. He had a song he’d been working on and he wanted to get the vocals right. He didn’t need help from the others for it, nor did he love their reactions to it. John, in particular, was quick to tell him how much better it would if he were singing it. Which was dumb. Didn’t John see that it was about him?

 

Paul wasn’t really feeling up to anything today but had no plans to share this. When he flubbed the vocals again, he shrugged as if it didn’t bother him and absentmindedly rubbed a hand through his hair, moving to sit at the piano. He lifted its lid and began playing Martha My Dear. He felt nothing.

 

The rest of the day was the same as it had been for the last year, only worse. Yoko had miscarried only a few months ago and John was still torn up about it. _Maybe she shouldn’t have been doing heroin_ , Paul thought bitterly and could barely find the will to feel guilty. John lashed out at random, and usually at Paul, no matter how civil he was being. Paul was tired, always, but he’d stopped rising to the fight. He just ignored John, or responded with something playful, _annoyingly optimistic_ , John had once called him. Paul didn’t feel very optimistic these days.

 

 

**April 1969**

 

John and Yoko married. And he took her name. _John Ono Lennon_. Something died inside Paul when he heard. John hadn’t even told him. He heard it on the radio. Paul had met John’s challenging look with a smile, congratulating both him and Yoko. He hadn’t suggested anything at that session. Or the one after. Or the one after that. He didn’t tell John that they couldn’t have a fifteen-minute screaming session be a song on the album. He didn’t tell George that he was playing too much, something George probably knew anyway, but was just doing to piss him off. It was like everything switched off. Music didn’t bring him any joy, anymore. Neither did sex. He was numb.

 

On his way home, he’d taken a detour and stopped at the Indica. He smiled at Barry when he saw him and then continued on to browse the store’s contents. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it. He walked over and carefully plucked the book off the shelf. _Suicide and Attempted Suicide_. Paul’s interest should have unnerved him, but he felt nothing. He smiled reassuringly at Barry when he went to pay. “What’re you getting this for, Paul?” Barry asked, voice forcefully casual. Paul laughed, pleased with how effortless it sounded. “Ah, no, Barry, nothing like that. I’m just curious, is all,” he said, winking. Barry smiled hesitantly. “If you’re sure,” he said, handing the book back. “Don’t you worry, Barry. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Ta,” Paul lifted the book in a sort of _thanks_ gesture and left.

 

When he got home, he read the book in one sitting.

 

 

**July 1969**

More fighting. They were hardly recording together anymore. Paul had memorized three passages from _Suicide and Attempted Suicide_.

 

 

**August 1969**

 

This was it. John wanted a divorce. They’d never record again.

 

Paul had started planning.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long... But it's here now! Annnnnndddd there's probably going to be a third chapter now... so... Here's to hoping that's not going to take... six months.... 
> 
> Because my note got really (obnoxiously) long in the first chapter, I didn't include this, but this fic was also inspired by ChutJeDors' fic This Is Not Them (which you should check out because it's great!)
> 
> Lastly! TRIGGER WARNING! If you want spoilers, head on down to the end notes and I'll let you know what the trigger warning is for--

**October 1968**

 

John was seething. They’d been doing some last-minute mixing all afternoon and all he wanted when they took a break was to maybe jam a little, but _no_ , he forgot that everything was really about _his majesty_.

 

“Alright, George, maybe after I’ve done this little bit you do something around the d minor? No no, not quite, it’s got to be a little quieter than that, soft, like. Yeah, okay, that could work. And maybe – hey, Rings, if you could do a soft little _du-d-du-d-du_ sort of deal - close! A little slower, maybe? Yeah, that’s good. And John, maybe if you – “

 

“Jesus Christ, Paul, leave it! We’re not recording anything, for fuck’s sake, we’re just playing!”

 

Paul stared at him, alarmed. And fuck if that didn’t make John even angrier. Paul had no idea what he was like to everyone else. He was infuriating.

 

“Well, I know, Johnny, but I just thought, y’know, while we’re all here like this we could try to get something down. Get a bit of a head start.” Paul shuffled, face carefully innocent, but John knew better. He knew that Paul would do anything he thought he could get away with, no matter what. But John was tired of this.

 

“Oh, piss off, Paul,” John scoffed. “We’re not gonna fall for that bullshit. This is why I keep telling you Yoko is perfect to get us all back on track. We can actually create something when we play rather than just repeat your useless granny shite.”

 

Paul bristled. “Would you stop calling it that? And it was George that started this in the first place!”

 

“Oh, asked you to take over, did he?”

 

“Come on, John, I was just trying to add to what he was already playing.”

 

“He very clearly has no fucking interest in playing it how you want, Paul. Not everything’s about you, y’know.”

“He doesn’t care, John. I thought the whole point of us playing together was to build on our strengths?”

 

“Which means that you have complete control of everything? You’re the only one able to make good songs, then?”

 

“Fuck off, John. At least I still fucking recognize what good music actually sounds like.”

 

John shot up. “And who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking prick? Yoko has more goddamn talent than you, AND she’s got a fucking _point_. All you ever fucking write is shit you don’t even understand. You’ve never loved anyone, Paul, and you fucking know it. Not little Dot, or good ol’ Janey, not anyone. Yet, magically, that seems to be all you can fucking write about. You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about and it shows. Yoko and I are actually in love, we actually understand what that means and we write the _truth_. And she’s great at it. I mean, fucking hell, Paul are you that fucking arrogant? Oh, yes, you’re just _so_ perfect, you don’t need to listen to lowly ol’ John, what would he know? Why would a god pay attention to what any of us ants are doing?”

 

He was panting, alight with fury. Even now, a year after he’d left Paul for Yoko, no one could ignite him so intensely so quickly. Paul had been nothing but overbearing and controlling and douchey since the split. It was like he suddenly owned everyone.

 

John watched Paul stare at the keys of the piano, waiting for him to say something. Normally Paul would shoot back right away, sometimes not even waiting for John to finish. But not now. He just sat there.

 

Suddenly, Paul jumped up –  and there was something about his face that was wrong, as if it was being twisted into a smile against his will. John opened his mouth, to say what, he didn’t know, but Paul beat him to it. “Y’know, I’m pretty beat. Let’s try this again tomorrow.”

 

John sat stunned for just a moment as Paul left before he was racing after him, ignoring Ringo’s protest. He caught up with Paul just before he left and dragged him into the bathroom. He was shaking, he was so angry.

 

“You are a sick piece of shit, Paul,” He hissed. He knew what was coming and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. “I tried to tell Yoko that you weren’t just a self-important prick, but _fuck_ , I was fucking wrong. All you ever cared about was _you_. This – _all of this_ was a goddamn mistake. _You_ are the worst mistake I ever made. I can’t believe I let myself get sucked into your world of dolled up tarts.” Now for the real kicker – “You’re disgusting, Paul. A disgusting little faggot who only gives a shit about himself. What the hell did I ever see in you?”

 

Paul was quiet. John waited and waited and then – _fuck, what?_

 

_Was Paul crying?_

 

Fucking hell, he was.

 

He gaped openly as Paul sniffled into his hand. He’d only ever seen Paul cry once, when they’d both been drunk off their arses back in the early days, and the conversation had turned somehow to their mothers. Paul wasn’t a crier. Paul was a fighter. John hadn’t even considered the possibility that Paul wouldn’t stand his ground and aim straight for John’s jugular. Paul was petty and generally wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to be a dick, so John knew he’d crossed some sort of line and felt a frightening amount of guilt.

 

He couldn’t handle this roller-coaster of a day and so he did what he always did: he left.

 

He found Yoko outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall, face blank as she looked at him and he knew she’d heard everything. “Are you okay?” She asked, carefully. A sarcastic reply was ready on his tongue, but this was Yoko. He slowly shook his head, just once. She gave a curt nod, before telling him to meet her at the front. She was going to grab his things.

 

John waited in the front room. He felt strange, guilty and kind of worried, though he couldn’t really figure out why, nor was he sure he wanted to. He didn’t know that he could handle that right now. He looked up when Paul left. His face was slightly red, but expressionless. Like nothing had happened. John kept his head down until Yoko came up to him and gently started petting his hair. “It’s okay, John. Let’s go home.”

 

**April 1969**

 

Although John loved everything he was doing for his peace campaign, he was glad to be home. He’d been gone too long and was yearning for some down time. The last thing he wanted as he lay in bed with the woman of his dreams was to get a phone call just as he was about to fall asleep. He groaned and buried his face further in Yoko’s hair, hoping to just wait it out.

 

“John, get the phone,” Yoko mumbled after another minute, sleepily pushing at his chest. He cursed softly as he forced himself out of the heat of his bed, shuffling blindly to the phone in the hallway. He yanked it off the receiver and barked harshly, “What?”

 

_“Sorry to bother you so late, John. It’s Barry.”_

John shifted, irritation dissipating slightly. “What do you want?”

 

He heard shuffling. _“Well, honestly, it’s probably nothing, y’know? Which makes this call pointless, but I just- John, It’s been stressing me out, okay, and I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to call you so at least someone knows-“_

“Jesus, Barry, just spit it out!”

 

_“Okay. Okay. Um, well, Paul came in a couple weeks ago. And he bought a book. Which isn’t weird, really, he comes in from time to time, and I mean, really, he’s involved, so it makes sense, but, y’know, it was the book he got that was just- I don’t know, it was weird to see him with it. He seemed **fine** , but still.”_

“What’d he get?”

 

_“It’s a book called ‘Suicide and Attempted Suicide’. It’s a pretty fucked up book, John. I’ve actually been debating taking it off the shelves because it’s just so detailed. But, really John, he was probably just curious. I don’t want to stress you out, but it- it seemed off. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, but you know Paul’d never say anything to me. Do you know if he’s doing alright?”_

John felt awake now. “Uh, no. I think he’s been fine.” His mind took him unbidden back to their bathroom fight. “Yeah, he’s been quieter than normal, but not by much. Think he’s as tired as the rest of us, probably.”

 

_“Yeah, that’s got to be it.”_ A pause. _“He wouldn’t… right? He’d never do that?”_

 

John felt a jolt. “Of course not, don’t be stupid,” he snapped. That wasn’t something that could be possible. Paul was disgustingly optimistic about everything and he never felt anything strong enough to get to that place. But if he did…

 

No. He couldn’t accept that. Paul wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t a slave to his emotions like John was and wouldn’t let himself succumb to anything.

 

He couldn’t.

 

**May 1969**

John had expected himself to be more alert and aware of Paul after that phone call with Barry, but he hadn’t. If possible, he found it even harder now to talk to Paul. He didn’t even want to look at him. Every time he did, anxiety and anger rose out of nowhere, at the mere _concept_ that Paul could even consider a book like that. He couldn’t make himself say what exactly what it was he was scared of Paul doing. Except he wasn’t scared of Paul actually doing anything, because Paul _wouldn’t_. He didn’t have it in him.

 

Despite how hard John tried to avoid Paul, though, he still couldn’t help but notice that he’d worn the same jumper to the last three sessions.

 

**July 1969**

 

-still wearing jumpers even though its _23 degrees out_

-has he washed??

-hasn’t shaved in at least a year. minimum.

-skinnier

-hasn’t been with any girls for at least the last couple months

-hasn’t cut his hair either. is he even getting trims?

-three separate sessions where he said, maybe, 4 sentences total, at each. _PAUL_.

-i think he was drunk a couple weeks ago

-has shown up hungover at least twice

-shockingly, bossier than usual

-gives up easier, though

-i said hi the other day and he looked so happy that i thought he was going to cry

- _j u m p e r s_ : how is he alive in those

-isnt seeing girls (i thought?) but had several hickeys

-overly smiley, even for him

 

John flicked his eyes to Ringo, sat awkwardly on the armchair.

 

“The hell is this?” He asked, offering the paper to Yoko, who had been trying to read over his shoulder for the last minute. Ringo watched the exchange with something akin to disappointment in his eyes.

 

“I’ve been watching Paul for a while,” he said, oddly, given that this was Ringo, avoiding the question.

 

John narrowed his eyes, feeling attacked. He didn’t know why.

 

“Why?” He asked.

 

“Well,” Ringo started. “a couple months ago he came in with a bunch of cuts on his hand and I asked him what happened, y’know – thinking he maybe just dropped a glass and cut himself up pretty bad or something – but he looked really embarrassed and he couldn’t even get a full straight story out. I thought it was weird so I just watched him a bit and I started to notice things-“ he nodded at the paper Yoko had finished reading, “like that. He’s actually seemed almost… better, I suppose. But that worries me, too. I felt like someone else needed to know.”

 

John jolted.

 

_I decided to tell you so that someone else knows-_

“And what am _I_ supposed to do? This-“ he yanked the paper out of Yoko’s hand, tearing it slightly. “is nothing but you overthinking Paul being Paul. He’s bossy, he’s always been that way. Believe it or not, he’s always dressed like a goddamn prude, just for the sake of looking _‘nice’_. He sleeps with any slut that so much as glances at him, Ritch, it’s not at _all_ surprising that he had a couple of fucking hickeys!” He stood up, practically shaking with fury. _Fury?_ “And if you fucking ask me, it’s good he came to the studio wasted because now everyone fucking knows what a _fake_ he is. Everyone thinks he’s this god among men but he’s nothing but a self-important _fuck_ who spends his time basking in his own fucking glory!”

 

John stopped, panting. Ringo was staring at him wide-eyed and he could feel Yoko’s hand on his arm. He took a deep breath, sinking slowly back onto the couch.

 

“If you ask me, he deserves this. Fucker should get a taste of his own goddamned medicine.”

 

He could see the shaking of his hands where they were gripping the paper between his knees, could still feel the trembling in his legs, his shoulders, but it wasn’t until Yoko drew his head down that he realized how badly he had been affected. The tears started almost as soon as their foreheads touched, and then he was falling apart right there on the couch in his boxers and glasses, Ringo his helpless witness. He gripped Yoko desperately, crying unintelligibly into her hair. He wanted nothing more than to stay there and never face any of this, his breakdown in front of one of his closest friends, the impending collapse of Paul, _his Paul._

 

He couldn’t handle it.

 

He pulled away from Yoko and stormed to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

He angrily rubbed the tears away as he paced across the room. He and Paul certainly weren’t in amazing shape, but it wasn’t like they couldn’t pull through it. Paul was _Paul._ And _Paul_ was the one who had been so fucking _worried_ about everything. They could never do anything, _anything_ because _what if someone sees? John, we can’t do **that** here, you know we can’t. Come on, John, don’t be like that, you know what I mean._

 

“No, I fucking don’t, you piece of shit,” John snarled under his breath.

 

This was Paul’s fault.

 

_All_ of it was Paul’s fault. _He_ pushed John away first, so John had followed that other pull he’d felt for Yoko.

 

But Paul had to be a goddamn baby and fall apart as if it wasn’t his own fault.

 

John collapsed on the bed, exhausted and angry and heartbroken all over again, and cried until he fell asleep.

 

**September 1969**

John frowned as Paul walked into the office, chipper and excited and smiley as always. He was the only person who looked like he wanted to be there. God knows John wanted nothing to do with this anymore. He’d already made it clear to everyone that he was done. The only person who seemed to have a problem with that was Paul.

 

John had once again found that it was difficult to so much as look at Paul without welling up with intense anger. Every time he saw Paul, he repeated what he knew to be true: _it’s your own fault, Paul, it’s your own fault, Paul, it’s your own fault, Paul. **Grow up.**_

 

As the meeting began, John was fascinated with how different he and Paul had become. Or maybe they’d always been this different. They still had one film left to do to complete their contract and Paul looked ecstatic, while John wanted nothing more than to say _fuck the contract_. He was done. He’d made that perfectly clear.

 

Obviously not clear enough because _shit._

 

Klein had just gotten them another contract for the next five years. Two albums a year until ’75. 3 more films. Paul couldn’t look happier. John couldn’t be angrier.

 

Fuck Paul and his stupid fucking smile and his stupid fucking contract.

 

**March 1970**

 

It had only been two months since he’d last seen Paul, but _Jesus_. It might as well have been years.

 

Paul practically skipped into the room, long dark hair bouncing on his shoulders and bass bumping against his leg, bright smile splitting his face.

 

John shared a glance with Yoko. Even she seemed slightly surprised. He looked around and saw that both George and Ringo looked stunned.

 

It wasn’t necessarily that seeing Paul happy was surprising… It was more how genuine it seemed.

 

Had no one called him?

 

“Morning, lads!” Paul chirped, setting his bass down and taking his coat off. There was a chorus of hesitant greetings and Paul turned around, confusion clear on his face. “What?” he asked, concerned.

 

John kept his eyes glued to his fingers as he fiddled around on his guitar. It was silent for another couple of torturous minutes before Ringo finally took pity on poor, clueless Paul – “Well, um, it’s just…” he paused, nervously shifting his drumsticks to his right hand. “you know that we, uh, we’re gonna kill the contract, right?”

 

John peaked through the hair falling in his face. Paul was completely still. It seemed almost like he had stopped breathing. Slowly Paul inhaled and said, “No, I didn’t.” And that was it. He brushed his hair out of his face, picked up his bass and began to carefully check that it was tuned.

 

Paul seemed fine, but John felt uneasy.

 

**April 1970**

 

This was it. The last day of recording. Their last day recording.

 

As everyone packed up their instruments and the film crew packed up their equipment, John glanced around, taking everything in. He had to admit, as much as he talked, he had actually been dreading this.

 

This was familiar, safe. He loved Yoko, loved what they did, but that was still uncharted territory. And, if he was honest, he was going to miss everyone.

 

He huffed softly and Yoko glanced at him. It wasn’t like he was never going to see them again. They just weren’t going to work together anymore. This was going to be good for them. They’d benefit from some separation. They needed some time to be artists on their own.

 

Still, as he left the studio, Yoko dutifully at his side, he couldn’t help but feel like he was firmly closing a door that, once closed, he’d never be able to open again.

 

**April 20, 1970**

 

“John.” A tap.

 

“John.” A slight shove.

 

_“John.”_

 

“Jesus fuck, why do we only fucking get phone calls at ungodly hours?” He grumbled, stumbling out of bed to get the phone. He pulled it off the receiver and leaned it against his ear. “Yeah?”

 

_“John?”_

 

Peter Brown. Weird. John yawned. “Yeah, what do you want? It’s-“ he glanced at his watch, “- half six. You couldn’t’ve called me later?”

 

_“John, no, I couldn’t.”_

 

The tremble in his voice startled John awake. He straightened up, anxiety filling his stomach.

 

“What’s happened?” He asked, suddenly terrified of the answer.

 

_“John, I- fuck. I don’t know how to say this delicately. Paul- a fan found him in his room about an hour ago.”_ A pause. _“He overdosed, John,”_ he said, voice gentle.

 

John blinked, feeling floaty and light and though he knew it was bad, _this_ was bad, _really bad_ , he couldn’t process enough to really understand what he was being told.

 

“Is he okay?” He asked stupidly. There was a noise that John couldn’t place on the other end.

 

_“Oh, John. God, I’m so sorry.”_

 

John slammed the phone back on the receiver, breathing fast and shallow. Slowly, everything caught up with him and then he was crumpling on the floor, hugging himself, Yoko sprinting out the room at the sound of his wail, but he didn’t see her, didn’t even notice when she tried to hug him, tried to ask what had happened. He couldn’t even comprehend everything he was feeling, it was too much, everything was too much, it was too early, and it was just _too fucking much._ But he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t real, couldn’t even lie to himself.

 

There was no way that the deep, bone-severing pain was a lie.

 

Paul was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! I'm not subtle about this throughout the fic, but there is suicide in this. It's vague in this chapter, but still. Just in case. There's also vague references to self-harm, so be careful out there guys!


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